Binford, you’ve been one-upped.
This is a hydraulically powered chainsaw designed for cutting concrete.
That’s all.
Need to cut a hole through a bridge for maintenance?
Bye
:’-(
Bye Grandma.
When she was a grad student, she broke her leg skiing down the Ave (in the U-district, Seattle) on two boards in a snow storm.
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Stochastic process
(from a week ago)
Ya know those clouds of mosquito-like (are they actually mosquitoes? I’m not sure–they look it, but I’ve never been bitten by one of them) bugs that slowly migrate around on cool spring and summer evenings?
A moment ago I was just nearly hit–or rather engulfed–by one, and promptly began to wonder. What a crazy and unpredictable thing that cloud is. It’s nuts. Then I thought about planet earth; wow.
It’s mind-blowing. You and I are tiny parts of an infinitely more crazy/beautiful/unpredictable process than those bug clouds. You and I can laugh, cry, learn, love, hurt, heal, and be.
I’m not sure what to think about this. All I think at the moment is that it’s great. It is truly great.
Diamonds
They glimmer and sparkle and blaze. I may loose some serious masculinity points for saying that; but really dudes, before judging me look at a diamond for a moment than look away. Be honest, you want to look at it again. Why is it so interesting? I don’t know, to be frank…it’s one of life’s little puzzles for me for now. That said, I definitely don’t want to own a diamond. I guess it’s like a racing motorcycle (Ducati Desmosedici…*moment of silent awe*) that way. Awesome, but I don’t want one.
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Lights
Tears stream down your face
I promise you I will learn from my mistakes
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you
-Coldplay
Poverty
Maybe trying so hard to eradicate poverty is all wrong;
maybe we’d do better to just figure out how to de-problem it.
Hmm.
Camden, and the end game
“…hopefully at the end of this special, you will join us at ABC in thinking about what we could do to help the Camden.”
-Diane Sawyer, during a 20/20 special about the town of Camden, NJ
Gah! GAH!!
I can’t recall the last time a single spoken sentence has so massively frustrated me. “Think about it?” Lets THINK about it? There are folks who will do something to help Camden, and there are folks who won’t. Neither will do any good to the world by “thinking” about it “with” you, ABC. GAH.
Ok, I’m done soapboxing now.
Beginning a year or so ago, when I was first exposed to education literature/research, a question has been on my mind more and more: what’s the end game of high school education? Yes, I dearly want slum children to earn their diplomas, go to college, do great things in life, and ultimately escape the terrible modern ghetto. It’s reasonable to posit that we should aim for nothing less than this for every child—lets give them freedom to live out their full human being potential. As with any problem, it’s an intuitive step to check boundary conditions, i.e. what happens if we win. Lets say we reach this golden standard: all poor urban kids graduate, attend university, and go on to lead great lives.
What’s the end game though?
It would then seem that towns like Camden ought to be simply left. Maybe they’d become modern ghost towns, nasty and inhabited by the miserable few who didn’t escape for some reason. Alternatively, maybe they’d be completely torn out, the land re-zoned for whatever the city planner deemed good, and rebuilt. Those are just two possible ideas, nothing really good to base a legitimate argument on; however they’re indicative of something more. They somewhat articulate the idea that’s bothering me–but not too well.
The discord is sharper in a rural context. The hope of graduation/university/great-things, fully realized for all the youth of some given district, would simply end a rural town. That couldn’t be right. What’s the end game?
It’s probably a bit better to ask “what’s a good end game?”
So far I only have a one (unfortunately somewhat vague) idea about a good end game:
Learning to be, fully, as a human beings can, must be absolutely central.
Freedom
Flying. Flying; it kindles the imagination, defies lots of things (gravity, namely; but also some common sense), and really captures some part of human nature, doesn’t it? I know I’m not the only one who’s had flying dreams. Even in reality, in a giant plane (I haven’t done skydiving or hangliding yet) where I have essentially no control, in that moment when the plane lifts off and the ground falls away, I cannot help but grin a silly little grin.
3 Months
I recently read “The Last Lecture,” the autobiography of a rapidly dying man, Randy Pausch. He had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He did try a new hail-mary operation, but it didn’t work; the cancer was terminal. Pausch was a certifiably crazy character, had incredible wisdom to share, and wrote it out very well. Understandably, The Last Lecture became wildly popular. I definitely recommend it–I’m not sure that I agree with all his ideas, but regardless the wisdom he shares is amazing and inspiring.
Waiting in time
I’d come around
In the early winter evening.
The skies were cloudy, but broken enough
To let through some of the golden light,
As the sun began to set
Over the Northern Sea.
All the times I’d come here to be
The peace had always helped.
It was never quiet,
Not with the waves, always
Breaking over the rocks below,
But so it was, and it was peace,
and it had always helped.
I set the diamond on a rock,
It blazed in the golden sunlight;
It didn’t seem right, though.
An eastern wind blew through the grass
On the bluff where I sat and listened;
I listened to the tranquil place where I was.
A moment passed, maybe more than that;
Here, time had always meant less.
Looking over the sound,
I could see the other two islands
And the Northern Sea, where I was.
I picked up the last piece, and held it
Up to the dying light of the sunset.
All the others I’d thrown into the wind
As a heavy gust blew out over the sea.
It had only taken one careful swing
Of a good sized rock
To shatter the diamond.
Now I held the only piece left
Of what was.
It didn’t blaze at all, but was beautiful.
It glimmered simply in the last light;
it was right.
God why? Oh God, why?
“My God, why have you forsaken me?!” he cried out, a dying man. His blood was running out–the wood had opened the gashes on his back, from flogging that had nearly claimed his life earlier that day. After the long hours of hanging by nails through his wrists, his lungs had nearly filled with mucus and fluid. They offered him some sour wine. He cried out again, with a loud voice, and yielded his spirit.
So Jesus died, in more excruciating physical, emotional, and above all spiritual pain than any one of us can grasp.
His mother and brothers watched him die. That pain I can begin to try to grasp; I think of my loved ones, and tears fill my eyes. I wonder about the pain his mother experienced, and it shakes me to the core. How did it not break her soul? The single most painful moment of my life was at my friends funeral, seeing his mother weep. I think that pain is etched into my heart and soul for as long as I will be. How did Mary’s soul not break? Maybe it did, come to think about it; maybe it did and was healed. That would surely take a miracle.
I turn, and I look up at God.
“Why did you make me like this? Why do I do evil? And even more, why would you forgive me? Forgive a better man! I’m a horrible person God, maybe you’ll change your mind if I tell you about me, the hurt I’ve done to others…and you love them too!…just by being selfish and prideful me.”
He smiles a little smile, shakes his head, and sighs a bit.
“I love you, child.”
“Well sure, but I screw up! I hurt other people that you love! What about them? What about the relationships I have with others, that I’ve ruined? What about you? I haven’t done a very good job of getting to know you, I usually spend more time doing homework than with you. Not only do I screw up and hurt people, I screw up and hurt you! Some days I wonder if I’m even sane to believe that you’re here!”
He nodded his head, still smiling a little bit.
“Yeah, you do screw up a lot, but don’t worry about that for the moment. I made you to richly, deeply, truly be, son. That means relationships, and relationships in a world where everything’s perfect…well, think about it. It would be a rehearsed act, lip syncing. Relationships are meaningless without right, and downright horrible when there is complete lack of peace. Right needs law and peace needs justice. My relationship with you, above all, is like that.”
“But can’t you just somehow make it right? I would take anything…just…can’t things be right and good for a little while Couldn’t I just be punished? Wouldn’t that make things right?”
“I love you, child. I don’t want to have to punish you for all you’ve done, I’d like there to be another way. Remember the good friend you hurt the other year, and you cried? When I saw your pain, I cried.”
“But…God…can’t you do something?! Anything?”
“I did, my child, I did. Ask Christ about it, he’ll tell you more.”
He still smiled a little bit, and gave me a big hug as I began to sob.
He stood and delivered
Jaime Escalante died yesterday.
I had always wished I could meet him someday. I guess that won’t happen here.
RIP
:'(
Do you have any croissants?–
–asked the young man, in a stiff European accent and inquisitive tone.
“This is a lumber yard kid, not some cheesy cafe. Beat it.” replied the gruff worker behind the counter.
The next day at opening, the young man walked in again and asked the same worker, “Do you have any croissants? I just love those.” He had the very same inquisitive tone.
“I TOLD YOU YESTERDAY. This is a lumber yard, we sell lumber, we don’t sell no stupid French food. Murphs is the only good food in town, go get a beef sandwich or somethin’. If you come here again asking for croissants, I will personally hammer a nail through your tongue to this counter–*cashier hits counter with fist*. Beat it!”
Showing equal parts courage and stupidity, the young man walked into the lumber yard again the next day, first thing in the morning.
In his odd European accent: “Pardon me, but do you have any hammers?”
“No.” replied the worker, a bit confused, but already feeling angry again at this dumb European kid.
“Do you have any nails?” the young man asked, in his same inquisitive tone.
The worker raised his voice a bit, and hit the counter with his fist: ” *BAM*. No. Kid, this is a lumber yard. We sell lumber. Didn’t they teach you to read signs?!”
“Well, that’s fine than. Do you have any croissants?”
Smell like a man, man. Wait what?
Smell like a man, man. I love those two Old Spice commercials, the ones from the Superbowl. Hello ladies, look at your man, now back to me, now back at your man, now back to me. Sadly, he isn’t me. The camera work, lighting, and acting are impeccable. If he stopped using lady scented body wash and switched to Old Spice, he could smell like me…so on and so forth. My favorite bit, from the shorter one…”did you know that I’m riding this horse backwards? ..*pause*.. Hyaa!”
It’s just so classy, so awesome. The tickets to that thing you love…the tickets are now diamonds!
But…I wonder what old Theodore Roosevelt would think of this guy and his talk of smelling like a man. I can’t help but wonder what he would say.
They’re cool and comfortable commercials, so much fun to watch…but that’s it. Men, look at your life and boil it down. Is there a lot of grit? Is there any grit at all? Do you love, fear reverently what ought be feared reverently, and care? Do you rarely hit, but never hit softly, do you give grace, respect, and mercy? Yes, we may say…but that grace, respect, and mercy, is it for the prostitute too? Does that scare you? It should not. Women*, do you see men like that around you?
When I think of the truest men I’ve met, some come to mind immediately. One, a skinny white boy, changed more lives for the better than many will in their whole lifetime, and he only spent 21 years here; he’s in a better place now. Another, a short (and slightly pudgy) fellow, does good work helping people who desperately need it. He’s dirt poor and does not own a boat. He has saved many from painful death (hundreds if not thousands), and has helped even more live fuller and richer lives, in a country where that does not happen often. I doubt either of them would fit too well into the Old Spice advertising campaign.
Both these men are set apart by a distinct sense of being, almost of place–their place. It’s a thing common to good men; it seems to come from a deep bedrock of a dual nature.
One side is grit, straight up. The grit to turn away fun affection, knowing the end harm it would bring (none to you). The grit to turn down being a fighter pilot for an utterly unglamorous life lived for others. The grit to give help to a prostitute, he or she. The grit to be both a fighter and a father with passion, intensity, dignity, and humility. The grit to chase her through the sky, stabilize her tumble once you catch her, pull the rip cord on her pack, then watch to make sure her chute deploys right, all while counting and knowing yours won’t have time to (true story–it ended how it sounds like it did; he was a professional, under 30, she was a complete stranger and novice, over 40). The grit it takes to accept redemption on your knees, and then on your feet walk back to the loved ones you’ve hurt (that may be the truest).
The other part is pure heart. Complete love and care, faith and hope, so intensely rooted and powerful they seem a bit out of place in the world we see. Like a diamond in the pavement— the reflected sunlight catches the eye for a short pause in time and, instantly, the mind–the being–knows there’s more. It’s a little glimmer of something unnatural to us, unnatural yet purer.
I know I haven’t seen much of life; I have a long way to go in this work of becoming a good man. But from where I’ve been, where I am, and what I see, I do know this must be part of it.
Be a man, man.
*Don’t misread; what a woman should and shouldn’t be is not something I’ve even begun to try to understand. Well…maybe I’ve thought about it a little bit. But that’s all. This is about men, and being a man, a much more familiar topic for me.